


Angeleyes

by mottsfruitcupsofficial



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Miscarriage, Rating May Change, This Is Sad, ellana is not the one having the miscarriage, lavellan lies like she breathes, non-con in chapter 2, not to ellana, tee hee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28661787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mottsfruitcupsofficial/pseuds/mottsfruitcupsofficial
Summary: Keep thinking about his angel eyes.Keep thinking...."You must never swallow a lie, Ellana. You might choke. But it's worse if it goes down easy -- in your belly, it will grow."
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

It takes Solas a disgustingly long time to realize that Ellana is hiding something. From him.

Two weeks into their stay at Haven and she nearly has him wrapped around her finger before he realizes that something is amiss. And with this suspicion comes a small swell of pride. He has garnered some great affection for this girl, in only two weeks. It surprises him rather greatly that she has deceived him.

But his affection only grows with his suspicion.

Her questions are always posed politely. She learned of his aversion to the Dalish early and skirts around the subject with ease, without ever sharing her own opinion on them. She listens with rapt attention to every word whenever he speaks. She keeps her hands respectfully, innocently behind her back. Leaning forwards just slightly. The hair, especially, endears her. Fluffy and ashen, she seems to find it difficult to control and leaves it to curl sweetly around her face and fall in whorls down her back. It looks touchably soft. 

She often tucks it behind her ears.

But the expression she wears, most of all, is masterful. Eyebrows gently raised. Eyes wide, as if in wonder, but not enough to make her look unwise. Only curious. The lips parted and a little slack. Looking up at him through her lashes, just slightly. The impression is of someone completely engrossed in whatever he is saying. Made all the more potent by her pleasing features, as well as her youth. That she barely reaches his shoulders and stands only a head taller than Varric suits the image as well. 

She has painted a marvelous picture of herself. He wonders if even Leliana realizes. She has the whole Inquisition cooing at her sweetness. Their affection for her is boundless. Her cheeks dimple when she smiles. 

It gives her great advantage. Made all the more easy by the fact that most quicklings see only what they want to see when they look upon a person, and in Ellana they want to see a solution to all their problems. Filtered through the lens of their precious Chantry, she is purity. Andraste’s chosen -- their virginal hero. Made all the more exotic and otherworldly by her heritage and  _ vallaslin _ . She wields their assumptions expertly.

At the beginning of their stay in Haven, the Chancellor Roderick was left sputtering when his baseless accusations against Ellana had earned him a stifled gasp. Solas had watched with rapt attention as her lips trembled and her big brown eyes grew a little wet and felt his own chest pinch in sympathy. She had looked towards Cullen, then, who had been arguing with the man, and brought her hand to her mouth to cover her swelling of emotion, and wiped her glistening eyes. Then she looked back to Roderick, before finally turning her gaze shamefully to her feet. Roderick had looked stricken at the girl-child, who gave the impression of a wet kitten.

“I-- I just…” She had sniffled, and her eyes had welled once more. “I-I’m trying my best. I just w-want you all to trust me…” She had stammered. Trembling and unsure.

Cullen had puffed his chest, then, and gained ruddy colour in his cheeks, and taken the rest from there. One of the first of her faithful. He had gained easy verbal ground against the Chancellor, who had the look of someone first experiencing the shame of playing too roughly with a child and causing them to cry.

That display had created the first inkling of Solas’ suspicion. The elves he knew of this time would have frozen in fear at Chantry posturing and their wanton suspicion. But even at the Breach, Ellana knew not to argue or defend herself. Instead, she had blinked innocently at Roderick and kept her gaze to her twiddling thumbs. No trace of offense or anger. And Cassandra and Leliana had handled it for her. Solas had thought her innocent, at the time. Not so much anymore.

Varric, too, is under her spell. He calls her Dandelion, and gives her fatherly advice. He places himself subtly in between her and the enemies they face, as she is still somewhat untrained in combat. She dimples at him in return.

Cassandra looks at Ellana with sisterly affection now, as well. There is no trace of hostility leftover from her anger at the Breach. Solas wonders if she believes, even a little, that Ellana was chosen by her “Maker” as so many of the Inquisition say.

But it is Solas that she makes the most effort to spend time with. She asks him the most questions. She sits with him at meals. She offers to darn his socks. And through her uncommon tactic of manipulation, Solas thinks, or hopes, that he sees a genuine spark of interest in her eyes when he talks. And doubts, often, if she is even manipulating him at all. 

She is perceptive, as well. She brings them both a mug of soup one day, in Haven. She begins her questions. Her bashful image involves a certain lack of eye contact. Usually, when she looks down upon her feet or hands, or in this case, her mug, Solas looks out across Haven’s landscape as he shares his knowledge with her.

Today, however, it is quite windy. As such, she is bundled in a thick cardigan and scarf against the cold, and the impression she gives is once again of a kitten. A fluffy one. The wind blows her hair into her eyes, and she blinks and shakes her head to get it out of the way.

His hand is gently tucking it behind her ear before he even realizes. A far too intimate gesture. He jerks his hand back.

“My apologies,  _ lethallin _ . It -- seemed to annoy you. I did not mean to presume.”

But she only dimples at him and calls him  _ hahren  _ when she bids him politely to continue his story.

A few days later, when their party makes camp for the night in the Hinterlands, she struggles with her hair once more as she sits next to him by the fire. She looks adorably distressed as she struggles to pull a comb through it.

He cannot even tell if she is acting when she does so. His chest pinches. She is so precious. Finally, she sighs and gives up. She puffs out a breath and looks at him, shoulders slumped. The picture of defeat.

He has opened his mouth before he even realizes it.

“Would you like for me to give it a try,  _ da’len?  _ I may be of help _. _ ”  _ Da’len _ . He has taken to calling her such, lately. And it fits her so well. She is so small.

She perks up immediately. “Would you? Oh,  _ enaste.  _ Thank you so much,  _ hahren _ . I’m nearly ready to shave it bald as you have,” she says with a sheepish smile and scoots around so her back is to him.

“Of course,” he murmurs, “though I don’t believe shaving--” He stops. He had never told her he shaved his head. He meant for it to look as if he was bald. “--Shaving it would be the best course of action,” he manages. “I much prefer the way it looks now.”

Her ears twitch. His chest pinches.

He begins to work the comb through the many snarls in her hair and finds it to be just as soft as it looks. Besides the one large knot on the side of her head which she had struggled with earlier, combing the rest of her hair is quite easy. The comb coaxes her hair into soft, shining waves which he begins to carefully braid away from her face. It reminds him, wistfully, of doing the same for Mythal when he was many, many years younger. And a little of doing the same for his own hair.

She looks quite fetching when he is finished. 

It becomes a habit for the both of them, afterward. Especially after they reach Skyhold. At first, she only comes running frantically into the rotunda begging, “ _ hahren,  _ please, could you fix my hair for me? I can’t do it as well as you,” before important meetings, but soon it is nearly every morning that she kneels in front of his chair so he may comb and braid her hair.

Precious thing. 

He should not allow her to entice him with such deception. 

But the closer they grow, the more obvious her little manipulations become. And she never wastes time. She makes sure to ask him as many questions as she can in the interim it takes him to do her hair. And when her meetings are over, she returns. She often links her arm in his while she stands next to him in the rotunda or at camp on missions. 

He can never find the strength to truly rebuke her.

....

She sits next to him before the fire at camp, one night. Cassandra has already gone to bed, and Varric scribbles in his notes. He tells her of a memory, one of a dwarf brought to tears at the first light of the surface after surviving a horde of darkspawn. 

Solas stiffens when he realizes she has gone quiet, thinking he’s upset her. But her breathing has gone deep and even. She has fallen asleep.

He traces her features hungrily, committing it all to memory. Without her figurative mantle, the look of innocence is less stark. Her brows are a little pinched. She looks irritated. But as he watches, her features relax, and he can feel her enter the Fade. 

When he finally looks up, Varric is watching him, eyebrows raised in judgement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im changing the structure of this story up a bit so its gonna be one chapter from solas' perspective, in the present, and one from ellana's, in the past  
> yay!
> 
> this is dark.

Ellana Lavellan hates to suffer fools, and she has been suffering them her whole life. She hates the intricacies of it. What sort of fool is this person, what mask do they need her to wear? How should she act? 

How are they stupid enough to fall for it?

That is something _Mamae_ often said while leaving the Comtesse’ chambers in a self-satisfied huff, while Ellana trailed breathlessly behind.

Mamae often told her that the best liars were the ones who could lie even to themselves, who believed the things they said to other people. But, she would say. This poisons you. What remains afterward? Where do your truths fit in between all of the falsehoods? 

Mamae, you see, would have been a bard had life been kinder to her. She was uniquely suited to the task, in all manners. In truth, she was a bard in everything but name -- only she worked for herself. She often spun it to Ellana that it was better this way. No organization to take a cut of her earnings. No one to admonish her when she failed. 

And Mamae had very rarely failed. Indeed -- Ellana could only think of two instances. Mamae’s nose was a failure, for it was slightly hooked. It was her only flaw, and Mamae remarked on the misfortune of it whenever she passed a looking glass. Ellana had said, once, that it made her look regal, like a bronze statue. Mamae had tutted and looked down upon her child in pity. No one wanted a regal elven woman, Ellana. Bronze statues do not kneel at the feet of shem and rub their faces against their stockings.

Ellana had been her second sin. A nighttime dalliance with another elven servant, a foolish boy who had left the safety of his Dalish clan to find glory amongst the shemlen and regretted it bitterly for the rest of his miserable life. One who gave Ellana nothing but the colour of her eyes. Mamae would speak of the man no further. Ellana saw no reason to -- there could be nothing good to say about a person whom Mamae held in such little regard. And the way Mamae had looked when she talked about him -- tipping her chin up and looking down her nose at the ground in anger. She had been so beautiful.

And she was right to be angry, for Ellana had come at a great price to Mamae. Her whole angle had to change. She could no longer be the whimsical, innocent, elven maid. She could not sing sweet songs while hanging the laundry of her master or blink large, unknowing eyes. It brought Mamae great sorrow. Such an act cast so wide a net, she told Ellana. And it was so easy to do -- everyone loved sullying the innocence of such a woman. They loved peeling off her rags and pressing her into beds with silk sheets, showing her the ways of men. Dressing her, after, in brocade and chiffon. For about -- six months. And then she would disappear in the night and move on to the next. 

Before their ardor cooled to disdain, or others took notice.

But with Ellana, everything had to change. She could no longer be such a woman with a babe at her hip. Instead, she was beautiful and sad. Her tears would well in red-rimmed eyes as she watched her child weave her a crown of daisies. Still mourning her husband. Nearly a martyr in her drive to raise her child well, despite the cost.

The net this one cast was not wide, but those it caught were hopelessly entangled. They remained loyal to Mamae for much longer than just a half year.

And the Comtesse had been the last. 

Mamae had watched her for weeks before her first move. She was in dire need of a lady’s maid because Mamae had arranged for the last one's death.

Posing as a friend, she had written to the Comtesse to come to meet her in the gardens of her estate, by a rushing fountain. She had let the woman wait for ten minutes before she sent Ellana out. Wearing a sweet linen dress and pinafore, with flowers braided in her hair, Ellana had toddled up to the woman. She had bowed deeply and said, in her sweetest, most childlike voice;

“Madame de Gagne is very sorry. She has been indispo -- indisposed. She sent me to tell you so, my lady.”

And the woman had melted. She had pinched Ellana’s cheeks, stroked her hair, and remarked on what a well-behaved elf she was -- and asked where she lived. Where her parents were. Ellana had bid the ruffled woman wait, just a moment, and fetched Mamae.

Mamae had floated through the garden towards the woman, her ashen hair floating around her like a halo, and introduced herself to the Comtesse. Ellana had played with tufts of grass quietly to the side while Mamae spoke in hushed tones of her plight and the Comtesse hung off of her every word.

Ellana had never seen someone ensnared so fast. An hour later, the three of them departed to the Comtesse’ manor, Mamae’s employment secured.

Within a month, Mamae served her in bed, too. The three years Mamae and Ellana spent with the Comtesse had been good ones. Ellana and Mamae had never been dressed so well, had never been so full after every meal, had never slept on such soft beds. They were gifted silk shoes, hairpins, brooches. The Comtesse was kind to Ellana too; allowing her the prettiest dolls and finest dresses, and an elven tutor to teach her how to read. Every gift was a victory, and Mamae wore them proudly, and soon ruled the Comtesse’s house at her side as her personal bard. Counseling the Comtesse on the Game, and soothing her weary heart. And Ellana had watched every interaction she could, learning every trick, devouring every morsel. Jealous, deep in her heart, of the smile Mamae wore, even though it was a lie.

Towards the end of the third year, the Comtesse’s husband returned from court and remarked with amusement at his wife’s new bed warmer and her whelp. Mamae and Ellana were moved from the Comtesse’s chambers to more modest ones down the hall so the Comte could take his rights as a husband, and every night the two of them would argue and shout, and Mamae would gnash her teeth at the injustice of it all.

The Comte had returned to sire an heir, and the Comtesse would not have him any longer. She would not betray Mamae. Mamae would sit with her head in her hand and glared at the door for hours, waiting for the Comtesse. For a message, for the Comte to leave, for his guards to escort her out. For an assassin to kill them both. Grinding her teeth. Packing and unpacking.

Ellana would read her books while she watched, and convince Mamae to eat bits of food or sleep for an hour.

Finally, the message came. Ellana's elven tutor who bid Mamae: come meet the Comtesse in her rooms, please. Bring the child.

And so they went and found the rooms empty. And they waited in her bed chambers, as they often had before.

When Mamae heard the door to the parlor finally open, she panicked. Ellana knew why. The steps that followed were too heavy. She shoved Ellana in the dumbwaiter next to the bed and told her to be silent. When Mamae turned around, It was the Comte who darkened the door frame instead, immaculately dressed -- but without his mask. Ellana watched through the slats, built to allow steam to escape, biting her nails. Over his eye was a fresh scratch. On his collar, a dot of blood. His lip was split.

Ellana watched the Comte make his accusations. Trickery, blood magic, whoring, the like. Ellana had heard it all before, and so had Mamae -- but she was in no state to play the Game after the stress of the past weeks. The humiliation she had endured when he ousted her from her place at the Comtesse's side. Ellana had never seen Mamae sputter, or lose her cool -- but soon Mamae was shouting back, hurling insults to match the Comte’s, and then Ellana knew to close her eyes. She knew the punishment women like Mamae received when they acted out.

She did not watch. She did not see the Comte grab Mamae by her hair and throw her onto the bed. She did not see as he tore Mamae’s beautiful dress. She did not hear Mamae scream.

She did not witness what happened next.

She did not see the Comte collapse with a grunt, finally, on top of Mamae, chuckling darkly to himself. And Mamae slowly reaching up to her head to tear out a hairpin and drive it through his eye.

All had been silent for a moment.

Then, with an anguished sob, Mamae shoved the Comte’s cooling corpse to the ground and slid off of the bed. She crawled to the dumbwaiter, threw open its lacquered door, and crushed Ellana in a sticky, bloody hug. They both trembled and cried as they held each other, and Mamae stroked Ellana’s hair. Ellana, guiltily, delighted in the rare attention, and when Mamae pulled back she hoped to find affection in her mother’s eyes. 

But Ellana’s heart nearly seized at the sight of Mamae’s face, instead.

They had to leave. She helped Mamae to her feet, and was nearly ill at the rivulets of blood -- from the Comte on her neck and leaking from between her legs. She led Mamae to the washbasin and left her to dress in one of the Comtesse’s sets of traveling clothes.

Then they returned to their rooms and gathered their things. Ellana washed herself and changed. Every bit of finery that they could carry, they took, and they left out the window. 

....

They rested in the Alienage, for no longer than a day. Mamae would not speak unless to a merchant, and over the course of the day, she slowly sold their belongings. They left Val Royeaux, Mamae hobbling, seething, gnashing her teeth. They walked for days until finally, a group of Dalish hunters found them. Mamae had clutched Ellana in her arms then and fell upon her knees, and cried out to them.

“I have the child of Ellas, here. I was his faithful wife in Val Royeaux, and his master killed him and raped me. Please, for the love of Mythal, grant us sanctuary,” Mamae sobbed.

The hunters had recoiled in shock, then. But one, a woman, had approached, and looked at Ellana’s face, at her eyes. She had nodded in understanding, and guided them back to their clan.


	3. Chapter 3

He seeks her out in the Fade some days later, after their return to Skyhold. Not to interact, but to observe. Although he doubts that whatever she is hiding could be dangerous, it is still important that he know. For reasons of safety. 

She has some knowledge of entering the Fade through dreams -- from her training as First, as Keepers often seek guidance from spirits, as well as what he has told her of his own travels in dreams. Thus, the landscape her dreams inhabit is somewhat fractured and cloudy. The only things in focus are herself, wearing a gauzy nightgown, and a dark figure in Chantry robes that looms over her and shouts, wagging its finger and gesturing wildly to an unseen crowd.

His heart quickens in anticipation at this -- morsel. A glance into her mind, her true feelings. He can feel her malice from where he stands, a distance away.

Suddenly, she crouches in front of the figure and sweeps her leg out, knocking his feet from under him. As he falls, he shrinks, taking on a more human form and the face of Chancellor Roderick.

Ellana kneels over him and places her hands around his neck. She squeezes, choking him, and he struggles but cannot wrest himself from her grasp. Her arms shake. 

Solas feels his chest swell with anticipation, excitement. Like cracking open a particularly tough oyster, finally, and finding a beautiful, dark pearl. 

Solas creeps closer, hand outstretched. This much negative emotion could attract vengeful spirits, he needs to stop her, she must be having a nightmare -- and watches as she jerks the figure’s neck against the ground, bashing its head. 

No blood follows the sound of the crunch, and the figure keeps struggling. Her arms keep shaking. He is close enough to see her face.

Her expression is the same as in sleep, but her eyes are open and sharp. And a small, genuine smile twists her mouth as she watches the Chancellor suffer.

“Da’len,” Solas murmurs gently. She does not stir. “Would it not be wiser to vent these frustrations through training? With Seeker Cassandra, perhaps?”

She shakes her head. “Not good enough,” she whispers. The Chancellor’s image jerks. “I want to hurt him. He humiliated me. I had to --” She stops, suddenly.

Her head whips to face him. She looks up at him in panic. The Chancellor disappears in a puff of greenish smoke and Solas watches her hand fly to her mouth. She bites her nails.

”You’re real,” she whispers. Solas tries to answer, but she disappears. 

She had woken herself up.

  
  
  


…

Solas anxiously searches for her the next morning. She must be upset. He needs to assure her that he is not angry, that her secret anger is safe with him. He has secrets too -- he is angry as well, and hurt, and he must keep it buried just as she has. He cannot share this, but perhaps if he comforts her she will be able to see it in his face that he understands. 

But she avoids him. She doesn’t answer her door and ducks down passageways when she sees him, her face once again an innocent and impassive mask. Solas wants to give chase, but can’t -- these shemlen will think the worst if they see an elven apostate chasing their beloved Herald. 

He finally returns to the rotunda and slumps into his chair. He opens a book and tries to read, but he does not absorb the words.

Perhaps this outcome is for the best. They are already too close. If he leaves her be now, she may draw back from their -- friendship, and perhaps his feelings may cool the less time they spend together. It will certainly make it easier for him to leave, for him and for her --

The door to the rotunda swings open, Ellana behind it. She looks at him in panic once more and rushes up the stairs. Solas stands up so fast his chair topples over and follows her, but when he reaches the top of the stair she is already gone. Dorian is sitting in his ostentatious armchair, a book in his lap, and looks behind him worriedly -- Ellana must have gone in that direction -- before turning back to Solas. He opens his mouth to speak, brow furrowed, but Solas brings a finger to his lips. 

Dorian raises his eyebrows. He jerks a thumb behind him, mouths ‘is she upset?’ Solas nods. He steps away from the door and clears his throat.

“Dorian. I have just heard news that The Iron Bull and Commander Cullen are -- sparring in the yard. And they are shirtless,” Solas says haltingly. He gestures to the door and raises his eyebrows at Dorian, who obligingly gets up.

“Oh, are they? I should have to -- see for myself. To correct their form, of course. Thank you for, ah, informing me. Solas,” he says as he makes his way to the door. He pats Solas on the arm, casts him a concerned glance, and leaves. He cares deeply for Ellana, too. He is likely worried.

Solas breathes a sigh of relief at his departure nonetheless and walks to the stacks Dorian had been looking at, keeping his steps silent. She is sitting on a chair against the wall, curled up, an upside-down book in one hand. Her other hand, the one holding the Anchor, is held to her mouth so she can bite her nails.

Solas walks closer and she notices him with no small amount of panic, jerking in her chair. 

“Ellana,” he murmurs soothingly, stopping in front of her. He kneels so that they are eye level, gently taking her book and placing it on the ground before removing her abused fingers from her mouth. The nail beds are bleeding and raw. 

“You shouldn’t bite your nails, da’len,” he chides, holding her hand carefully in both of his, and presses healing magic into her fingers. Ellana wilts.

“You aren’t mad?” She whispers, face open and vulnerable. There are tears in her eyes -- real ones, but she blinks before any can fall. Her nose is running. This distress is so much deeper than her display at Haven, Solas thinks. It is genuine, she thinks she did something wrong, she needs his help --

“Of course not, _da’len_ ,” he breathes. “You did nothing wrong. The Fade is a reflection of our feelings, amplified. It is no surprise that the Chancellor Roderick made you angry. His actions at Haven were ignorant and unwise.” He squeezes her hand. “I only feared that your emotions may influence any surrounding spirits, which is why I interrupted you.” Her tears fall now, and Ellana hastily swipes them away.

“I’m sorry for crying,” she hiccups, pulling her hands away from him to cover her face. She curls into herself, shaking her head, beginning to tremble. “I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to see me like that -- you can’t see -- you won’t like me anymore --”

“Hush, Ellana. That’s not true. Who told you that?” Solas asks, grasping her wrists gently to pull them away from her face. She lets him, looking back at him again. Her face is pale, highlighting the redness her crying has brought to her cheeks. There are dark circles under her eyes.

“Everyone -- they all did,” she whispers. Solas feels a pit open in his stomach. Her clan. She can’t hold his gaze and looks down at where his hands hold her wrists instead. Solas shakes his head. She looks back at him and shakes her head, too.

“They didn’t have to say anything,” she murmurs. “I can always see by their faces -- what they’re thinking -- and I have to be good or they won’t like me -- I --” She hiccups, and pauses to take a deep, shaking breath. “T-they won’t want me otherwise -- they won’t want to feed me,” she squeezes her eyes shut.

Solas nearly strikes the wall in anger. Her clan. The Dalish.

Instead, he rises and wraps his arms around her and rocks her gently, making soothing noises. He presses his nose into her hair.

“It won’t be like that anymore, Ellana.” He squeezes her and she whimpers, her hands shakily coming to grip the tunic covering his back. “Everything you are feeling -- it is all -- good.” 

He pulls away from her to look her in the eyes. They are wide and shining. He begins to gently stroke her hair and she ever so slightly leans into the touch.

“It is never wrong to have emotions, _da’len_. You need not hide, anymore.” He wipes a tear from her eyes with the edge of his tunic. “And I promise you, everyone here will still like you. Love you, even. You will never go hungry. You’re the Inquisitor.”

He cups her cheek, finally, stroking the soft skin with his thumb.

“Everything is going to be alright, _da’len_ ,” he lies.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trying really hard to illustrate how unhealthy ellana's relationship with her mother is lol
> 
> also tw miscarriage and blood!

Ellana had never stuck out so sorely among people. Even the jealous servants and nobles of the Comtesse’s manor did not make Ellana feel so  _ other.  _ They would always shift their gaze away quickly in the name of propriety -- or for hatred of looking upon a knife-ear for so long.

The Dalish here stared openly. They whispered strangely. Their mouths would pinch and twist sourly like they were trying not to spit. The way they spoke was odd.

But they let them in any way because this was Ellana’s father’s clan. _ Papae _ . Apparently, his name had been Ellas. 

Ellas and Ellana.

After a short, terse, discussion with the ‘ _ Keeper _ ,’ Mamae was escorted by the leader huntress -- Nessa -- to one of their strange landships called an  _ aravel. _ A woman-mage came out, and Ellana’s stomach had flipped. She had never met a mage before. The mage beckoned Mamae inside, and Ellana moved to follow, but Nessa placed her hand on Ellana’s shoulder, stopping her.

“She needs privacy. Just for a moment,  _ da’len _ .” Duh-len. What is that?

She led Ellana to a bench in front of a fire, where an old elf had been telling everyone a story. At her arrival, they all stopped. Nessa had cleared her throat, then.

“This is our  _ hahren _ . He tells stories. You should listen to him, for now. Until your Mamae is finished.” Huh-ren. Duh-len. Okay.

The Huh-ren gave Nessa a  _ look _ , but motioned her forward to sit with the other children, who stared, slack-jawed. Ellana batted her eyelashes at them and twiddled her thumbs as she sat down. She left plenty of space between them.

“Worried about your Mamae, are you?” The Huh-ren gruffly asked. His voice sounded like rolling gravel, and Ellana could barely catch his meaning through his accent. Ellana nodded. The other children shifted to watch their exchange.

“She’s hurt badly,” she mumbled. The Huh-ren nodded.

“I have a story for you, then. About Mythal. The All-Mother who hung the moon in the sky.” Huh-ren began. The other children blinked slowly. They had already heard this story before.

  
  
  


…

  
  


Mamae interrupted Huh-ren's story when she returned, ashen-faced. She  _ picked _ Ellana up, right off the ground, hefting her on her hips. She bowed quickly to the old man -- who looked offended -- and ignored the other staring children, setting off in the direction of the tents. Ellana carefully settled her head upon Mamae’s shoulder, jittery and excited at the contact. Mamae never picked her up. Her skin was cold. 

Mamae stopped in front of a half-set up tent, being erected by Nessa and a teenage boy, and set Ellana down. Sourly, she bowed to them and thanked them for the favor, but when she rose her face was once again impassive. The two stiffly nodded and continued their work, the boy especially cowed. Ellana’s heart thumped.

She clapped her hands, suddenly, in an approximation of childlike delight, and ran to Nessa to thank her. She gave her a big hug.

“Thank you,” she chirped. She looked up to the woman, whose face had immediately softened, before peeling herself away to do the same for the teenage boy. He sputtered and patted her back awkwardly, though he, too relaxed.

When Ellana returned to Mamae’s side, she smiled and stroked Ellana’s hair. Ellana shivered in delight.

“Good girl,” she said.

  
  


…

  
  
  


Adjusting to Dalish life was hard. Harder than any change between noble houses they had made before -- because Mamae did not help. Ellana supposed she couldn’t. There was no time or energy for Mamae to school her. She was sick. She was pale, nauseous, spat up bile, and could not eat. And neither of them could sleep. They had never slept on the ground before.

Mamae would lie awake all through the night. Next to her, Ellana would sleep fitfully and then tear her eyes open to escape from dreams where she was the one thrashing underneath the Comte and the hairpin lodged in his eye was Mamae’s finger. 

Then, she would shakily crawl to Mamae, who lay still like a statue, staring at the canopy above. Upon her touch, Mamae would open up, encasing Ellana in her arms. Ellana would safely peer through the slats of her fingers until she finally fell asleep.

  
When she woke, Mamae was always still awake.

During the mornings, Ellana sat with the Keeper and asked him as many questions as she could, which he always seemed to like. He taught her Elvhen words and how to sew up holes in his robes. In the afternoons, Ellana would sit with the other children, who found her terribly interesting now that she and Mamae had settled in, and would pepper her with questions about Val Royeaux and  _ shemlen _ . The days would slog on in this way, each one the same. It was terribly boring. They didn’t bring her violin and there was no piano. There was a strange-looking lute, but Ellana wasn’t allowed to touch it for fear she would break it. There were not many books to read, either. Ellana had to ask permission from the Keeper each time if she wanted to read. If he allowed her, he watched her warily the whole time as if expecting her to rip the pages out of the book and eat them. 

She supposed she might if they kept serving the same yucky porridge for breakfast. But that wouldn’t go over well. 

Mamae, on the other hand, would spend her days with the girl-mage (who was apparently apprenticed to the Keeper) in her  _ aravel  _ and emerge each day paler than the last, or stay in their tent staring up at the canopy. At first, many approached Mamae to offer sympathy for the loss of her husband, but Mamae seemed to have no patience for lying any longer and would shrug them off at any mention of  _ Papae _ . By their second month with the clan, Mamae’s belly had begun to swell and the offers of sympathy tapered off. They began to avoid her like she was sick and would pat Ellana’s head with unconcealed pity, which Ellana didn’t mind as long as their hands weren’t dirty.

Ellana knew better than to ask Mamae what was going on. She didn’t like to be prodded. Mamae could get very angry when she was bothered too much, and although Ellana was very grateful that Mamae had never struck her, she knew Mamae did not have to resort to violence to get her point across. A few measured words from Mamae could send Ellana into fits of tears for hours. 

Then, one night, when Ellana woke from her nightmare and crawled to Mamae as she had every night before, Mamae didn’t stir. When Ellana reached out to touch her, she found that her hand came away sticky and dark. As her eyes adjusted, she recognized the dark puddle that spread between Mamae’s legs.

She screamed. 

The Comte.

the Comte had been here, he must have survived, he came in and hurt Mamae again and Ellana didn’t do anything and now he was gone--

Mamae just kept staring at the canopy ahead as footsteps thundered to their tent.


End file.
